Wicked Ever After Page 4

  “Do you know who Emilo Montilla is?”

  “Who is this?” the cop asked.

  One-Mile didn’t answer. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Write this address down.” He rattled the information off to the detective. “Montilla broke into that house. I put a stop to him. You’ll find him facedown and unconscious in the tub. Hurry…”

  “Who are you?”

  One-Mile hung up and hauled ass out of the house, hopping into Valeria’s abandoned car. He was already heading for the freeway when he heard the sirens.

  One-Mile scrapped his plan to drive Valeria’s car to her in Florida, then fly home on Sunday.

  In case Montilla could somehow make good on his threat, he needed to warn Brea now. It couldn’t wait.

  Through the thick of night, he forced the little compact down the highway at speeds not intended for this small engine, refusing to stop for food or drink. The trip that should have taken over ten hours, he managed in less than eight.

  At ten on Saturday morning, he screeched up in front of the preacher’s house. He feared Brea would be at the salon, already doing someone’s hair. But her car still sat in the driveway.

  Thank fuck.

  As he yanked the keys from the little import’s ignition, the front door opened. He hauled ass up the walkway just as Brea emerged and headed for her vehicle, staring at her phone.

  The sight of her alive and in one piece sent visceral relief sluicing through his body. He’d fucking missed her like he’d been gone for a year, not nine damn days. He visually inhaled her, but that only made him hungrier.

  She’d dressed in a billowy gray sweater and black leggings he’d love to peel off her. She’d piled her hair in a haphazard knot. Even under the layers of makeup she didn’t usually wear, she looked too pale. Almost sick.

  Though he preferred her bare faced and bare assed, right now he was just so fucking glad to see her.

  “Brea!”

  Her head snapped up. When she spotted him, she stopped short and blinked. “Pierce, you’re back. When did you—”

  “Just now.” He closed the remaining distance between them and took her shoulders. “Is your dad home?”

  “No. He’s at the church.”

  “Good.” Without warning, One-Mile shoved her into the house, crowding her against the adjacent wall with his body, then locked the door. He stared out the glass opening. No one had followed him; he’d been watching. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  It felt so good to be close to Brea, but he could only afford a few minutes with her right now. He had to keep his head. “I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.”

  “Okay. I-I need to talk to you, too. There’s something you should—”

  “Let me go first.” He didn’t have the luxury of being polite.

  Frustration bubbled. Why had he hopped on his high fucking horse and decided it was his responsibility to make sure Valeria lived so that Baby Jorge grew up with his mom?

  You know the answer to that.

  But why the hell hadn’t he simply captured the drug lord and immediately called the police?

  Because, dumb ass, you couldn’t have your pound of flesh, so you insisted on stealing an ounce or two. Way to go.

  Now, he was paying for his stupidity. No matter how much he ached for Brea, he couldn’t be with her until he knew Montilla was behind bars for good—or dead.

  “Listen, Brea. I hate like hell to do this, but something has happened.” One-Mile tried not to terrify her. “I can’t see you for a while.”

  “I know you just got back. This can wait. My weekends are always busy. In fact, I’m late for a client now, but—”

  “It will be longer than a few days. I’m not sure how much. We could be talking months.”

  Shock crossed her face before she frowned. “What do you mean?”

  How the hell could he drop the bomb on her that a dangerous drug lord wanted to kill her slowly and painfully? He couldn’t without scaring the shit out of her. “Like I said, something’s happened. It’s complicated and it’s my fault…but we need to take a step back.” Fuck, he was bungling this. “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “So you don’t want me to move in?”

  He did. He’d love to have her against him every night. But he would choose her safety over his happiness every fucking day. Explaining that was a scary, long-winded bitch.

  He heard the tick-tick-ticking of time in his head. The second the Tierra Caliente organization talked to their captured drug lord, they would haul ass to Lafayette with revenge on their minds. He didn’t worry about himself. If he died, he died.

  But Brea couldn’t be anywhere near him.

  “Not now. I’ll explain when I can but—”

  “Actually, don’t worry.” Her face closed up. Her eyes filled with tears.

  He tensed. “What does that mean?”

  “I was going to say no anyway.”

  Seriously? He hadn’t fucking seen that coming. The night he’d left, she’d claimed she loved him. Now suddenly she’d decided to give him a polite fuck off? Because she’d interpreted his words as a breakup…or because she genuinely didn’t want him anymore? “Why?”

  “Pierce, I’m a preacher’s daughter. I can’t shack up with a man, especially one my father has never met. The fact that shocks you tells me we weren’t suited anyway.”

  That hadn’t crossed his mind…and it should have. Fuck.

  Looking ready to dissolve into tears, she shoved against him and edged toward the door. “I have to go.”

  Seriously, that was it? She was done talking? Pain spread through his chest and ice-picked through his veins.

  One-Mile sucked at relationships. Did her hesitation have anything to do with his confession about his father? Probably, but he couldn’t stay to fix it. He couldn’t fucking risk her. “So do I, but we will talk about this later.”

  “What’s the point?” Brea wrenched the door open.

  Before she could flee, he slapped a big palm over her head and slammed it shut, locking them in again. He should let her go; he knew it. Instead, he stupidly backed her against the door and slanted his mouth over hers, ravaging her like he intended to tattoo her taste on his tongue.

  After a little gasp, she grabbed him with desperate fingers, dragged him closer, and opened to him. He tasted her desperation as he sank deep and reveled in her softness. Their breaths merged. Her body clung.

  Fuck, she felt like home.

  Suddenly, she pushed him away and glared with accusing eyes. “Stop. You have your reasons for not wanting me to move in and—”

  “Because while I was gone—”

  “I don’t care why you changed your mind or who you slept with or…whatever. My dad found out about us and asked me not to see you for a month. After thoughtful consideration, I think he may be right.”

  “What?” Why the fuck would she think that?

  Because she didn’t love him, after all?

  “We were never going to work out. It’s best if you don’t come back.” She shoved him away and wriggled out the door.

  One-Mile watched, too stunned to stop her.

  By the time he surged outside in pursuit, she had already climbed in her car. He bit back the urge to call out to her. What good would it do?

  She thought it was over, and she would keep her distance. It was best…for now.

  But the second this shit with Montilla got sorted, he would hunt her down and resolve everything. He’d explain. He’d even beg if he had to. And since she couldn’t simply move in with him, he would propose. He loved her. He wanted to spend his life with her.

  As soon as he figured out what the fuck had happened to change her mind.

  One-Mile watched Brea drive away with a curse, vowing that he would set eyes—and every other part of him—on her again.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, November 1

  Louisiana

  * *
*

  As everyone in the salon joked and laughed around her, Brea held in a sob.

  Pierce didn’t want her anymore. Sure, he’d come up with an excuse, but the truth was he’d pushed her away. He’d lied. He had never loved her.

  That reality pelted her brain in a litany through the long day of stilted smiles and prying clients.

  It took all her will not to break down, but she refused to weep over a man who’d abruptly decided she wasn’t enough for him.

  Still, she couldn’t stop turning their brief conversation over in her head.

  If he no longer wanted or loved her, why had he rushed home to see her? And kissed her as if his life depended on it?

  The man had always confused her.

  As she swept the last of the hair from the floor and stored the broom, the chime on the empty salon’s front door rang. She turned, hoping to see a friendly face.

  Cutter appeared around the privacy partition dividing the front desk from the clients. “Hey, Bre-bee.”

  “You’re back!” She ran to him.

  He opened his arms and hugged her tight. “You okay?”

  She clung gratefully. He’d always been her lifeline. “Tell me what happened to you. Your client got kidnapped? And you got a concussion?” She skimmed her fingertips across his face. “That’s a nasty scrape on your cheek, but whatever gave you that bruise at your temple must have hurt like the dickens. And what about that long scratch on your chin?”

  Cutter pulled back with a scowl. “I’ll heal. But it wasn’t my finest case. Thankfully, Jolie Quinn, my client, kept her head up. Her corporate security specialist, Heath, managed to save her. They both got out alive.”

  “Oh, thank goodness everyone is all right.”

  “I’m not going to lie. Wednesday was rough. I should have done better.”

  She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

  “Except pee with my back against the wall,” he groused. “But how are you? Feeling any better?”

  Brea glanced into the break room to make sure everyone had, in fact, left. Finding it empty, she returned to Cutter’s side with a frown. “Not so good. Lots of nausea and exhaustion.”

  “Your text said your doctor appointment is Monday morning at eleven?”

  She nodded. “Can you make it?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for coming to see me. I could use a friend.” Tears filled her eyes.

  So much for her vow not to cry. But at the thought of never seeing Pierce again, hot drops scalded her cheeks.

  “Hey, Bre-Bee, shh… I know you’re worried. But don’t borrow trouble until you’ve seen the obstetrician and—”

  “P-Pierce broke up with me this morning.”

  “What?” His mouth pinched. His nostrils flared. His fists clenched. “Are you kidding me? You told him you were pregnant, and that motherfucker—”

  “I didn’t get to tell him. I don’t know what happened…” She sniffled. “Before he left on a mission last Thursday, he told me he loved me. He asked me to move in with him. But when he showed up at my house this morning, he…”

  She couldn’t finish that sentence without falling apart.

  “Dumped you. What reason did he give?”

  “He didn’t. He just said that something had come up and he couldn’t see me anymore. But he seemed impatient. Or nervous. I’m not sure. And he talked to me like…he was already half out the door.”

  “Oh, Bre-bee.” He caressed her back and held her as the tears she didn’t want to shed fell freely. “I’m sorry.”

  “You warned me.” She dragged in a deep breath and tried to stop blubbering. “B-but I’m so confused… When he told me he didn’t want me to move in anymore, I told him it was impossible anyway and tried to leave. Then he grabbed me and kissed me like he didn’t want to let me go.”

  “Don’t look for logic where Walker is concerned. You gave yourself to him in good faith because you fell for him. He’s just an asshole who played you. I hate that. And I hate him.” He gritted his teeth. “But now, it’s over. You have to move on. I’ll kick his ass for you.”

  “You can’t. That won’t solve anything. I just don’t know what I’m going to do if the doctor confirms I’m pregnant.”

  “Well, Pierce wasn’t going to be much help as a father anyway, so don’t bother giving two shits about him.”

  She couldn’t put this on his shoulders. “Cutter…”

  “Fine.” He clenched his jaw, which told her he wanted to say something more but didn’t to keep the peace. “I won’t bad-mouth him anymore. But I’m right. He’s gone, and you’re better off. Don’t worry. You know I’ve always taken care of you.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I always will.”

  One-Mile ambled around his house, shaking his goddamn head. Everywhere he looked, he saw Brea. Clutching her cookies in his foyer. Bending over his pool table. Undressing in his dining room. Spreading her naked body across his bed.

  And now she was gone—he feared for good.

  Goddamn it, he felt like he’d taken a dull knife, jabbed it into his chest, and fucking gutted himself.

  You always suspected you were all wrong for her. Good job proving it.

  “Fuck off,” he snarled at the voice in his head.

  He glanced at the wall clock. A little after six. After driving all night, he should have been starving and exhausted. He should have consumed half his refrigerator and crashed until dusk. But no. He’d choked down an egg and a few crackers, taken a scalding shower, then tossed and turned in his pristinely made bed for a few hours.

  Sleep hadn’t come, not with his head turning and his guts rolling.

  He opted for whiskey instead.

  Bottle in hand, he screwed off the cap, planted himself in front of his massive-ass TV, and flipped through the college football games. But he didn’t give a shit who won or lost.

  Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really give a shit about anything again except losing Brea.

  On that cheerful note, he chugged a good quarter of the bottle in one long swallow. If he was going to get completely trashed, why wait?

  But as he lifted the bottle to his lips again, someone began pounding on his door.

  His money was on Cutter.

  By now Brea had probably told her daddy-approved boyfriend that he’d been an absolute asswipe to her. Cutter would come in, full of vitriol and swinging fists.

  One-Mile welcomed it, and Cutter wouldn’t hold back. With physical pain to focus on, maybe One-Mile could forget how much his breaking heart fucking hurt.

  With a sigh, he lunged to his feet and headed toward the insistent knocking. “I know you came to beat the shit out of me. Don’t say anything. Just do it, okay?” He wrenched the door open and reared back. “You’re not Bryant.”

  Instead, all three of his bosses stood on his porch, looking somewhere between disgusted and pissed.

  Clearly, this wasn’t a social call.

  Fuck.

  “None of us is Bryant,” Hunter drawled. “But I’ll be more than happy to take you up on your invitation because you obviously need an ass kicking. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  So they had already heard about Montilla’s capture? Bitchin’. “Yeah, I probably am. I should have just killed that son of a bitch for what he did to me, but when I had him in his wife’s former safe house, I didn’t pull the trigger. I just turned him over like a good little citizen. I thought that would make you happy. But you’re clearly annoyed I didn’t follow orders.”

  “Do you ever turn on the fucking news?” Logan challenged, looking ready to wring his neck.

  Joaquin, who wasn’t much of a talker, rolled his eyes with a grunt and grabbed the remote, flipping the channel to cable news.

  The top-of-the-hour headline horrified him.

  Five Cops Dead, Two Injured in St. Louis Police Department Escape.

  Shock poured over him like a bucket of
ice. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Montilla’s thugs rolled in there, shot up the place, then took off with their boss—killing two more cops as they left just for the fun of it.”

  And every one of their deaths was on his head. One-Mile felt utterly sick as he sagged against the wall. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Yeah.” Hunter swiped the bottle from his hand and slammed it on the coffee table. “So you better start giving us reasons not to kill you ourselves. Explain what the fuck you were thinking and why you didn’t clue us in.”

  “And toss in a good rationale for we shouldn’t fire your insubordinate ass, too,” Logan chimed in.

  Honestly, he couldn’t think of a single one.

  Joaquin grabbed his arm and shoved the cuff of his long-sleeved athletic shirt past his elbow, examining the underside of his forearm. Then he turned to the others. “No new tracks.”

  They thought he was still taking the drugs Montilla and his goons had addicted him to? And that it had led to his lapse in judgment?

  One-Mile jerked free and exposed his other forearm. “Of course there are no fucking new tracks. But here. Examine this arm, too, so you can be really sure. But if you’d just asked me, I would have told you that once I went through detox in the hospital, I haven’t had any other cravings. I wasn’t high in St. Louis. I just fucked up.”

  “You got too involved.” Joaquin turned an accusing glare on the Edgington brothers. “I told you he wasn’t ready for an assignment.”

  “Bullshit,” One-Mile defended. “You asked me to relocate Valeria and her family safely. I did that.”

  “Sure, then you totally ignored orders and went rogue. So don’t fucking yell. You’re lucky we’re talking to you at all. You’re a talented son of a bitch, but not irreplaceable. I wanted to kill you for this stupid-ass stunt.” Joaquin pinned him with cold hazel eyes. His low voice was like a blade down One-Mile’s spine. “I got voted down.”

  “Too bad,” One-Mile quipped. That would have made everything so much easier… “Is Valeria still safe?”

  Logan nodded. “No thanks to you. We’ve warned her. Thankfully, Jack Cole recommended a bodyguard in the area, who’s with her now. She’ll call if she needs us.”